


The Buzz Under His Skin

by pink_ink



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Ian, M/M, Mania, but loads of mania feels, not loads of super graphic smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-23
Updated: 2014-11-23
Packaged: 2018-02-26 17:15:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2660024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pink_ink/pseuds/pink_ink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in early S4. See end for mental illness warning/notes.</p>
<p>  <em>This is definitely not what Ian meant to have happen. He had no idea what this would really be like, when he imagined it. But he never even really imagined it. It was like he snapped his fingers,and he's just here, and this guy is here, and now this is here. Happening. </em></p>
<p>(or: Ian's manic thoughts tend to circle back to one blue-eyed boy.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Buzz Under His Skin

There's something about the way he first pushes in that reminds him of Mickey. 

Mickey's eyes fluttering open, like waking up under a thick blanket. Pressing into him so heavy and deep he didn't know where he was for a minute. Then a stretch, a shudder, skin clenching just slightly, than a sigh overtaking them, breath easy and wet. 

It was one of the favorite things about fucking him. _I mean, come the fuck on, it was making love to him, right? It always was. It was always, always that._

Fuck. There it is again. Ah-ha-haaah. Shit. Fuck. This is definitely not what Ian meant to have happen. He had no idea what this would really be like, when he imagined it. But he never even really imagined it. It was like he snapped his fingers,and he's just here, and this guy is here, and now this is here. Happening. 

Mickey is not here. 

But then. Then, for some reason there he is again, in his mind, an ache Ian can't shake. Blue eyes breaking open and staring at him, burned into his brain. It's buzzing under his skin. A tiny wire racing under him, under everything. It's been like that for weeks. Ever since he left Chicago. But especially now. Now it's a real buzz, just there, poking and sending zings to his toes and spine and brain at the same time.

The guy puts his hand steady on Ian's hip. "You okay? You need to stop?." 

Ian grunts something he hopes sounds like no. He smells latex and his sweat, sharp as paper. Yet something sweet underneath, faintly hiding for weeks. He can smell it. _Sex. Mickey, the smell of Mickey. Sex. Sex with Mickey. Wait. No, not Mickey. What is that smell?_

He clenches his eyes tight, focuses on the man's hand on his hip, stretching the skin on his side. He smells something clinical and something primal. What the fuck is he doing here, seriously? How did this happen? 

His mind chatters, chatters something that he remembers, somewhere, deep. From English class? Spanish class? Spanish! The verbs To Be. Ser. Estar. _That star. That starry-eyed boy. Goddammit, there he is again._ Something in Ian shrinks. If he could move better, he'd shake his head.

Fuuuuuck. A moan is ripped out of him. 

English class. Jason and the Argonauts. This guy, leaning over him, is named Jason. He told him right before Ian made that joke, that stupid joke. What if someone's trying to kill you? Is there some golden fleece out there you gotta find before that happens?

Jason had slowly pulled his neck back, squinting, sizing him up. Ian's eyes crinkled with a smile, shifted to the wall, to the other wall. A practiced move that could diffuse anything, these days. He was doing that a lot, lately. He made a joke and it was all smooth again, smooth as skin, smooth as paper. 

“This will hurt,” Jason had said. 

Ian wanted to say _“Oh yeah? Good!”_ for a second. He could see himself smiling as he said it. 

The truth is, he hadn't felt anything since that cold water from the water fountain, doing push ups, his breath harsh and gasping, forming words, singing, his lungs expanding and contracting, ribs stretching. He felt like he was going to break, collapse, implode. He didn’t. He didn't feel cold, anymore. He didn't feel anything. Just this buzz, this movement, eyes wide. 

"Nothing hurts," he had said. He had laughed, actually. "You don't even know, man. Sorry if I, like, did anything weird. I'm okay, totally." 

So here they were, this guy holding onto him. "Do you want to turn over?" Jason says, his hand calm and sure between Ian's bare shoulders. Ian lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He shivers, can feel his skin hum under the man’s hand.

There is something that reminds him, suddenly, of one time in the cooler, Mickey sitting on the table. _No, not sitting, really._ Mickey’s back is on the table, his hip just barely on the table, his ass and thighs cradled in Ian’s long hands. Ian’s remembers how hard it was to breathe. _Oh my god, Mick.You look --_

_Shut the fuck up, Mickey said, but had breathed it, thick and damp._ A push back, a push forward, harder this time. Mickey’s eyes flew open. Fingers gripped behind him to find the table ledge. The table where Ian usually counted…what did he count there? Yogurt? Beer? He remembers checking in things on a sheet, saving the white copy for Linda, the pink copy to the delivery---

"Fuck." Ian snaps, starting to shrink and jerk a little. And he apologizes. 

"It's okay" Jason says. "Relax. Breathe." 

Breathe. The table. The copy. The pink copy, Mickey's pink lips pushing out _oh. god. fuck._ like punches, The memory is right there. _There. There._ hand swatting behind himself to find the edge of the cold table. Something in Mickey almost...afraid? Ian dropped his lips to Mickey’s hair. _“I gotcha. ‘sokay.”_ A deep groan, then. Mickey sliding and Ian had taken his weight, pulled him closer, said, _God, I--_ and Mickey's eyes had opened slow when he felt Ian's arm around him, holding him up. Blue eyes opening slowly, rolling back, little stars falling. 

Mickey reaching around him with both arms, cautiously, carefully as Ian held onto him. Mickey’s tattooed fingers slipping softly under his shoulder blades like he was petting thick, busted up wings. One of Mickey's hands holding onto the ropes of his bicep, the other hand reaching behind him for the table again, missing. _Fuck. God. Shit, this is fuckin' --_ Hands hard on Ian's forearms, gripping harder, _Harder._ _There. God!_ Sliding under and up to his back again, legs gripping, trying to sit up. Failing. _God!_ He’s shuddering. Sometimes Mickey gets like this, like he’s afraid to let go. His eyes get wide. Ian catches them, leans in, looks deep into him. _Stars._

_“I gotcha.”_ he said, lowering him back to the table, a little, just enough. And then Mickey is showing his throat, throwing it back hard groaning as Ian kissed it for the first time, really. _“Fuuuck you feel so good."_ It counts as the first time they did that, right? Because Mickey had pushed his fingers into Ian's neck, his hair? He had pushed Ian's head toward his throat, and sighed, and groaned long and hard and deep. Ian had whispered something. _What did he whisper? He doesn't even remember. Why can't he remember?_

He had whispered, and suddenly Mick had thrust his lips against his. Hard. Soft. So soft, really..but hard, but -- _Oh. God._ And Mickey pressed against him and _ungh_ and _yes_ and _oh_ and _my fucking_ and _god. Fuuuuck. Ian. Ian! Yes. God. Gonna. Fuckin. Ah! I! Ah! I--_

It reminds him of that, but no, he shakes his head. No, it is not easier to turn over. It's just not. 

There was a buzz, a plunge, the drawing of a gun, slowly taking shape. Ian couldn't even breathe. Literally, could not. Jason had his finger just beneath the rib. The rib. Wait. No. Ian's rib. _It's my rib,_ he thought, somewhere. _Adam's rib, rib from Eve. Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve, no fuck that bullshit. Adam and Steve had more fun, under those fig trees, for sure._

Ian can't breathe. Literally can't, again, and when he does, it feels like he's hard. Mickey. Wait. Shit. He is hard. He’s not-so-subtly pressing into the table, and there must be something in his breath, because Jason goes, "It's cool, man, happens all the time. It's intense, right?" 

It is. 

When it's over, Ian feels like he's falling through space. It’s like an orgasm, but not. Jason gives him some juice, tells him to sit in a chair by the front door. The chair feels clinical, sterile, smells like those sanitizer wipes. _Why does everything have to smell like that shit? Why can’t things just smell like bodies?_ The chair is too hard, even if the vinyl gives a little bit against his hands as he rocks slightly forward. He is at once trying to shy away and press against the bandage. It is sore and itches, but partly feels grounding and good. He wants to hold his side, to hold against a punch that isn’t coming, after all. 

The chair reminds him of when he waited for the medical exam, just a few weeks ago. _I am Philip Gallagher,_ he practiced. He practiced saying no to the right questions. Yes to right ones. On the forms he ignored so many boxes. No Monica boxes. None of them. Fuck that.

The more he sat, the more he itched, the more he felt that buzz under his skin. It wasn't the echo of the tattoo. Not Mickey. He thought the tattoo would shake it loose. He thought The Other Guys would shake it loose. Sometimes he woke up, eyes wide, and he couldn't breathe. He sometimes threw up, not eating, not anything. Sitting still, feeling like he had pins all over his body, body aching and buzzing and ready to sprint. Like he was wearing scratchy wool, actually. Was his coat made of wool? Was Jason’s coat wool? _Was there a real golden fleece?_ These are thoughts that slide in and out of him, unbidden. Smooth, sticky, leaving a trail that doesn’t quite dry before the next one comes. _Mickey. Like Mickey._ He shakes his head. Gay. 

Where was he? Oh yes, golden fleece. “There's Jason and the Argonauts, see? And there's Medea. The real one. The one who's like: _There is a hole that pierces my soul._ Intense, right?” Why is he even thinking of this shit? 

"I tested out of english class! As a sophomore!" he says, as Jason starts to shut the lights off.. Ian doesn't know how long he's been talking about this. He doesn't quite know how to stop. 

Jason smiles, ushers him to the door, and even then Ian knows what's happening. He wonders what will be next. "So. Hey," Ian says, and steps forward, eyes slowly gliding down.

Jason steps back, head tilting. "You gonna be okay, man?" 

Ian smiles, practiced. "Yeah, totally. I'm good." 

The shop lights are off. Door is locked. Jason’s gone. Ian's standing there. _How long has he been standing there?_ He's looking at the lights of the building next door, the streetlights. He squints and they blur. Why are they blurring? Blinks again. His eyes are wet. _Cold? What?_ No. He's tired, maybe? Is he tired? No. He finds a cigarette, paces, lights it. The lights are wet. The bandage itches and burns. To be. What is that? Estar. The star. Starry eyed boy. _My starry eyed boy._ He shakes his head. _Not mine._ Fuck. 

Was he cold in the cooler? He wasn't. He's not. The bandage itches and burns. _There is a hole that pierces my soul._ He starts to run. The bandage pulls and pulls. 

_There is a hole. A hole._ He laughs and runs, the cold becomes sweat under the collar of his coat.

A thought slides through, leaving a trace he can catch. _Home._ He stops short. The bandage pulls and pulls. The cold pounding hard in his lungs. His ribs feel like they are going to burst. _Creation from a rib. Who would hate their rib that much to willingly give it up? Who would love someone that much? What would even happen? To either person? How could they even breathe?_

He looks at lights, the blur. His eyes are wet. From the cold? He shakes his head until he feels the stars rattle from his eyes.. The chatter is still there. The buzz. _Mickey._

He turns, and runs.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking about Ian's Bipolar Disorder and the way it is portrayed. I have the same type of bipolar (that we've seen so far) and tried to describe the agitated feelings of mania from my own experiences.
> 
> **update 10/19** I wrote this when his storyline started rolling s4. (and yep, I'm also bipolar 1 haha), Thanks for the new traffic and comments!


End file.
